


It Starts With a Kiss

by Min_SD



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Drama, During Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-07
Updated: 2009-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Min_SD/pseuds/Min_SD
Summary: Dean is tormented by his love for his little brother, Sam.  All that pain and desire drive him to search out rough sex with any man who will give him what he needs.  Tonight, he finds a willing partner, and the lines between pain and pleasure blur past recognition.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's notes:** Contains rough, pretty graphic sex, please avoid if that kind of stuff squicks you out.

It Starts With a Kiss  
  
  


Dean tilted his head back and let himself be kissed, hard. Kissed good and proper, the man, (his name lost somewhere in Dean’s head), dominating him quickly, really fucking Dean’s mouth with his forceful tongue. Kissing him hot, and deep, and wet, making him feel boneless and stupid. The man put his hands on either side of Dean’s face, slid them down so they were cupping his neck, making him so vulnerable…The man could kill him easily—the warrior in Dean automatically sensed any and all physical weaknesses, even when he wasn’t on a hunt. Just a squeeze and a twist, and his neck would snap, but the idea of it only made Dean hotter. 

Dean’s hands started to reach out, but the man released his grip on Dean’s neck and seized him by the wrists. The man—a name floated to the surface, Dean had a head for details…Cam, his name was Cam—pushed Dean’s hands roughly against the wall, pinning him there and snarling into Dean’s mouth. Cam pulled his tongue out of Dean’s mouth, making Dean moan, dragging on his lower lip before releasing it. 

“Don’t move your hands from the wall or I’ll fuck your throat ‘til you can’t breathe anymore.” 

Sounded good; Dean nodded, whimpered, said, “Got it,” in a voice that sounded like he had been gargling with ground glass. 

Cam grinned, full lips curving over white teeth—he was tall, had shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, a sharp chin. Broad shoulders, thin hips, square, angular wrists, lean, muscled arms, and he felt like he was carved from rock pressed up against Dean, trapping him between flesh and brick. Dean was so goddamn fucking hard, so aroused, writhing and moaning into Cam’s mouth. His nails scraped at the brick wall out the back of some bar, in the darkness barely touched by an orange sodium street-lamp at the mouth of the alley. He shifted slightly, his boots moving on the damp asphalt and the wet clumps of paper and garbage strewn about. Trash underfoot, cold from the wall seeping into his body, wrists still pinned—so dirty-hot. He sucked in a trembling breath, tried to swallow through a tight throat. He was so wound-up, at any moment the stress of anticipation might be too much, and he’d just snap. 

Cam was mouthing along Dean’s jaw, teeth scraping on stubble, then his tongue licked down his neck, traced the arch of it, suckled his Adam’s apple and his jumping pulse point. 

“You taste good,” Cam said, releasing Dean’s wrists but giving him a flinty glare that warned him not to move them. Cam placed one hand on the side of Dean’s neck, keeping his head tilted back, rubbing his thumb over the corner of his jaw. Dean kept his palms flat on the brick wall but pressed forward with his hips to create some friction, rubbing his erection against Cam’s thigh so that the taller man shuddered and moaned. “You’re a hot little bitch, aren’t you?” 

“I try,” Dean whispered, gasping as Cam lifted a leg up between Dean’s; blissful pressure, knee to groin. 

“You looking to get fucked, Pretty Boy?” Cam hissed, moving both hands to the hem of Dean’s t-shirt under his green cargo jacket, slipping his fingers up under the fabric and spreading them wide on Dean’s flat stomach. Dean couldn’t help starting just a little at the sudden touch on sensitive flesh. Cam sensed his movement and his grip shifted so that he was pushing Dean back against the wall, hands heavy as they moved up along his torso, his chest, then as his fingers plucked at the hardened nubs of his nipples. 

Dean moaned, shifted and pistoned his hips to drag his denim-clad cock over Cam’s thigh. The gorgeous, green-eyed giant— _looks so much like Sam, so much, God, so hot, oh my Sammy_ —put his leg down, breaking off contact with Dean’s crotch and he couldn’t help but groan. He forgot himself for a second and put his right hand over his denim-clad cock, rubbing his palm up and down, his hips twitching forward without conscious effort. 

Cam hissed and grabbed Dean’s wrist hard enough to hurt. Dean cried out as Cam slammed his right hand against the wall over his head, then gripped his left hand and lifted it to pin beside the other. 

“Thought I told you not to move those hands. Am I wrong?” 

Dean’s heart beat faster with his sudden excitement, pumping pure adrenaline and lust. He struggled, just so Cam would tighten his grip, his fingers like high-tension wire wrapped around his wrists. 

“Am I?” he repeated. 

Dean shook his head, whispered in his roughened voice, “No, you did.” He had to drag out the words, smash down the remnants of his laughable pride, to say, “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” Cam echoed, shaking his head with disbelief, his eyes glinting dangerously, his upper lip curling up over his white teeth that shone even in the dim alley light. “Is that all you got?” 

“What do you want me to do?” Dean asked, licking his lips. The words and the thought behind them thrilled through his body like electricity that shot out from his middle. He rocked his pelvis forward again, pushing their cocks together. His voice was like gravel, low, and weighted-down with his desire. “I’ll do whatever you want.” _And I will_. He tilted his face up and flicked his tongue in and out of Cam’s mouth, caught Cam’s lower lip between his teeth and suckled at the swollen flesh. He tried to speak, had to stop and swallow, said, “I’ll suck you. Make it real good.” His eyes widened as Cam’s narrowed. “You wanna fuck my mouth?” 

“Get down, right here, on your knees in the filth,” Cam ordered, suddenly stepping back and seizing Dean by the biceps, shaking him hard, then forcing him down. When Dean didn’t move fast enough, Cam’s hand went to Dean’s neck and his fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Not very hard, not even hard enough to choke, just enough to show he was serious. Dean sank to his knees and almost came in his jeans right then and there. 

As he knelt down in front of Cam, the knees of his jeans soaking through with dirty water, and reached out to undo Cam’s button and zipper, the man released his neck and buried his hands in Dean’s short, spiky hair. Dean’s breath quickened with that delicious mix of lust and fear, the chance that he had chosen the wrong guy on the wrong night, that his voluntary participation wouldn’t be enough and it all would go sour and dark. The risk of submission, of letting himself be dominated almost violently, was there, and real, and, God help him, motherfucking hot as shit. He could take care of himself in a fight, obviously, and it had never gone that far, but every time he went out looking for some of the rough stuff, he had to size his partner up, try to read him and predict how far this guy wanted to go. Dean wondered, fantasized about what he would do if it ever happened, exactly how long he would let it go on before taking the guy out. 

_Jesus fuck_ but he was sick. He deserved it. Deserved everything that was coming to him. That’s why he wanted it so bad. 

Dean pulled Cam’s jeans and briefs down his thighs, rubbing his palms over the tense muscles that stood out, lightly covered in hair that thickened as it grew closer to his cock. His pubic hair was a dark patch nestled between the legs. Dean followed the grooves of muscle that ran up in a V-shape, moving his hand to Cam’s lower belly where his erect cock was a hard line against his abs, and along the trail of hair that grew to his navel. Then, Dean wrapped his left hand around the shaft of Cam’s cock and with his right hand, he fondled his balls. Cam rocked his hips, pushing his hot dick into Dean’s hands, pre-cum beading on his slit. 

Dean considered Cam’s dick, its dark, reddish color, the vein that ran up the side, the size of it, the swollen head. He wondered just how closely Cam resembled Sam all over. Was Sam’s cock as dark and dusky? So smooth and long? So sensitive, the way Cam moaned when Dean leaned forward and licked up the shaft from base to tip. He closed his eyes, imagining Sam’s hands on his head, fingers twisting into his hair. _God, Sammy_ … 

Cam’s voice was low and guttural as he let out a string of curses, ending with, “I’m gonna do you right here in this alley, surrounded by all the rest of the trash. ‘Cuz that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Just a _sweeeet_ little fuckhole. Just a mouth and an ass.” 

Pretty much. Dean let Cam fuck his mouth, hips pistoning, cock filling him almost to his throat before Cam pulled out with a sinful, wet noise and then plunged back in. Then, Cam was tugging Dean up, dragging him to his feet and scrambling at his fly. 

“Wanna, wanna fuck you,” Cam panted, yanking Dean’s jeans open, trying to pull them down before Dean’s belt was undone. Dean gently pushed his hands away and went to work on his own belt. 

“Reach into my left front pocket,” Dean said. Cam wiggled his fingers in, complying immediately, and quickly retrieved a foil condom packet. He ripped it open with his teeth, and rolled the condom down over his dick to the base, snapping the rubber and tugging it tight. 

Dean was just getting his belt open and pulling down his jeans, desperate for it, now, feeling an urgency to have this man’s cock in his ass. “ _Sam, Sammy_ ,” he hissed, but Cam either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Maybe he was thinking of somebody else, too. 

“Fucking strip your jeans, you slut, and do it _now_ ,” Cam growled, fingers twitching visibly as Dean tugged his jeans down his thighs, over his knees, letting them drop to his ankles. “I want to see your skin, want to see you hard and high for me. Your dick had better be flying like a flag on the fourth of July, you hot little whore.” 

And it was. He stood still for a long moment, trembling under Cam’s hard stare, his eyes flicking up and down Dean’s cock, his breath fast and loud and echoing off the alley walls. Dean’s swollen cock was a pulsing ache between his legs. 

Then, Dean twisted around, facing the wall. Cam grabbed him around the middle with one arm and put his other hand on the back of Dean’s neck. He pushed Dean down at an awkward angle, bent him over, and Dean put his hands out to lean his weight against the brick wall. Cam kept one arm around Dean’s waist, tugging him back to fit the crack of his ass against Cam’s huge, erect cock. 

“ _Fuck me, fuck me_ ,” Dean begged, pressing back and dropping his hands from the wall to stroke Cam’s hard muscles in the arm that he had wrapped around Dean’s waist like a vise. Cam was already spreading Dean’s cheeks with one hand. His thumb stroked the rim of Dean’s hole, pushed inside to his first knuckle, then to the base. Dean cried out, his hips jerking up within the circle of Cam’s arm. Then, Cam replaced the digit with his dick, and drove it home. 

Dean bought pre-lubed condoms; they came already slick and slippery, cutting down on prep time and letting him always get right to the part he craved. Yeah, like the fucking Boy Scouts, he was prepared. Cam slid in deep, while with his rock-hard arm he actually lifted Dean off his feet a little so that Dean came down on Cam’s cock with all his weight. Then, Cam put his other arm around Dean’s chest and shoved him all the way forward as Cam pulled out. Dean bumped his head against the brick alley wall and accidentally bit his lip with the force of it, and he tasted blood. And then Cam did it again, lifting Dean off his feet so Dean came down to the base of Cam’s cock with his full weight, the muscles of his tight channel spasming and clenching around Cam’s dick. Cam drove up into him, then drew back and out, then rammed back in. 

“What d’you want me to do?” Cam hissed. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Dean said, in a rasping voice. 

“Do what?” As Cam withdrew and then pounded home. 

Dean put his hands back up to brace himself against the wall, then got right into Cam’s rhythm. It was rough, dirty, and so hot—“Fuck me, _fuck me_ ,” Dean said and then kept saying through the burn, the words dragged out of him in time to Cam’s thrusts. “Oh, oh _God_ , fuck me _please_ ,” he cried as scalding tears— _feels so good_ —started to run down his cheeks. His full-body quaking was lost in the movement of Cam repeatedly plugging him up, so big and so wide that he rubbed right at Dean’s prostate every time, right behind the balls, that sweet spot, so that soon Dean couldn’t even make words anymore, just sounds. Grunts and moans, his eyes leaking and nose running, and his boots leaving the ground and kicking at the air. 

And then they were just fucking, moving together and apart, in and out, over and over. The alley was filled with the smacking noise of skin on skin, the sound of Cam’s balls slapping against Dean’s ass with every hard thrust. Sweat-slick flesh, pressed together, peeled apart, driving in and jerking out, so hot and wet. Fucking and fucking, and Jesus, this was what Dean craved, what he was looking for, what he chased after endlessly because he couldn’t ever be satisfied, it couldn’t ever be enough. Not ever, not unless he got what he _really_ wanted, his sweet baby brother, his Sammy, the only man in all the world that he loved with his whole heart. Sammy, spreading for him, so hot, and tight like Dean imagined…But it just couldn’t ever happen, Dean just wasn’t good enough, he was too twisted, too sick, wanting to fuck his little brother, his baby. So he found replacements, guys that had a look in their eyes or a body tall and built like Sam. Men like Cam, who’d fuck him raw, who’d give him dirty and rough, and pound him into the wall. Use him like fucking was all he was good for. 

Cam was making a lot of noise, big, strong guy whimpering and saying things like, “So hot, so pretty, so tight, so good.” Faster and faster, thrusting faster and faster in and out. And then, both of them rising and peaking together, perfectly in synch. Cam cried out, a strangled, twisting noise, while Dean just groaned, “ _Sammy_.” 

Dean’s cum shot out onto the wall of the alley, and up, some of it hitting his chin and dripping down to the trash-strewn street. Cam came inside the condom, went still and then jerked his hips, his cock twisting inside of Dean’s ass, wringing out the last pulsing waves of the orgasm for both of them. Then, with a sucking and squelching noise, he pulled out of Dean. 

Neither of them spoke, just gasping and shaking with the aftershocks of their massive orgasms. Dean straightened up, wincing at both the unavoidable soreness and the sudden emptiness in his ass. He pulled a cloth out of his jacket pocket, again the good little Boy Scout, and cleaned himself, his cum-wet chin, the lube slicked around his sore rim, and the weeping tip of his cock. He didn’t look around as he heard the snapping sound of Cam pulling off the condom and dropping it to the ground, where he kicked it away into the shadows further down the alley. Couldn't look, couldn't lift his gaze, last little vestiges of his once great and righteous pride. 

“Man,” Cam said, “You’re one good fuck, whatever your name is.” And just like that, he fucked Dean again, without even touching him. 

Cam chuckled as he pulled up his jeans, and Dean shut his eyes and hung his head. Still laughing, Cam just turned away and sauntered on down toward the mouth of the alley. His laughter echoed into the night as he reached the sidewalk and strolled off without a look back. Just left, barely sparing Dean a glance, or a word. Dean felt the familiar wave of self-loathing, looking at the cum-wet splatter on the brick wall, staring at the spot where Cam disappeared, and, thinking of the sound of Cam’s mocking laughter, was half-hard again.  
  
  


***  
  
  


One more notch on his belt, another hot, rough fuck in an alley or a car or a bar bathroom. Sinking a little further, a little deeper into debauched depravity—and wanting it, craving it, loving every second of the long fall into unrepentant, unforgivable sin. Doing everything he could to hurry it along. 

By about three in the morning, Dean was stumbling, off-his-ass intoxicated. He found a bar, and a bottle, and a cute little waitress who kept trying to flirt with him until she realized that she was dealing with a man on a mission. He poured whiskey, “neat”, down his throat until he felt it, and then kept pouring until he didn’t feel it at all. Mission accomplished, he hauled himself to his feet, left some cash on the table, and dragged his ass out into the night.  
  
  


***  
  
  


He used to have to get drunk before he could do it, before he could bend or kneel n front of whatever guy he could find who was tall enough, or had the right color hair, or eyes, or skin, or _clothes_ , and was into fucking him dirty. 

But by this time, by this night…sometimes he just forgot. Forgot to get drunk first, or even to take a shot of whiskey just to feel the burn in his throat. After, though…he _never_ forgot to drink, after. 

It kind of scared him that he didn’t need to be drunk to do it, anymore, that he could face it sober. Could face the shame, and the pain, could face the sick fuck he became when he was begging and writhing on another cock, which was attached to another sick fuck just like him. 

One thing he just couldn’t face sober, though, was going back to the room, and, waiting there for him, Sam. 

The very idea scared him shitless. The thought of having to look his Sammy in the eye sober and clear while he was still sore inside and out, and the feel of strange hands on him was still real and tingling on his skin, just curdled his soul. And his soul was already dark and chewed-up, twisted enough on its own, thanks. 

But what more deserved a man who had fallen head-over-heels, lust-drunk, heartsick, stupid in love with his baby brother? 

Drunk. He was just crying ‘cuz he was drunk, that was all. And when he stopped the tears, he aimed the Impala in the direction of the motel, and went home to Sam.  
  


End. 

*** 


End file.
